Tis Some Kind of Season
by Mystic25
Summary: It's Christmas. Sam has a fever. Dean has whiskey.


"'Tis Some Kind of Season."

Mystic25

Summary: It's Christmas. Sam has a fever. Dean has whiskey.

Rating: T for language.

**xxxxxXxxxx**

"Sam?"

Something is nudging him, Sam tries to ignore it.

"Sam-"

It does it again. Sam rolls over because his head hurts and his face is on fire, along with the rest of him.

"_Sammy-"_

Sam can't ignore it anymore. It's too annoying. Not a good combination when he feels like this. His eyes open, blearily. "Dean-" he was pretty sure he butchered that name, that is sounds more like a '_D'_ with an '_n'_ at the end of it. "What?" '_the hell'_ follows the end of it, at least he thinks so.

"You have a fever," Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes, or tries to. "I know." Rolling his eyes hurts too. He tries not to do it again. "What's your point?" the words slur like bleeding paint on canvas.

"Was that a sentence?" the older brother gets out, with a smirk, but not a full one. Sam's face is red, and he's looking a bit green around the gills, maybe that counts tonight. There is something wet in Dean's hand, dripping, he rings it out and places it atop Sam's forehead.

Sam flinches at the cold contact, Dean notices. He wipes down Sam neckline. Sam's too far into the fever to care that Dean is doing this. He whimpers, it sounds really pathetic, but it already came out.

"Shh," Dean is honest to god shushing him, carding a finger through his sweaty hair, and it's working. It doesn't take away Sam's headache or his aching muscles or the fever that's making him burn with intense heat and making him see five of everything. But, it's comforting the same; it's making him feel like maybe this shit will pass as long as there are moments like this.

"Here," Dean tilts something to Sam's parched lips and helps him sit up with an arm across his shoulder to drink it.

Sam sips, it's not water. His throat burns. He chokes. "What the hell?" This time Sam knows he says it, sputtering like a dying engine.

"Whoa, sorry," Dean pulls the glass away. "That one's mine." He hovers a different glass over Sam's lips.

Sam's throat is dry as cracked sand, but he eyes the clear water suspiciously, not wanting a repeat of a moment ago.

"It's water, Sam," Dean reassures, somewhat exasperated at his little brother's suspicion. But, he lets the annoyance die in his voice, because Sam swallows the water with a sigh because it soothes his irritated throat.

"You believe me now, premadonna?" Dean says.

"Shut up." Sam swallows more, and pushes the glass away when he's had enough.

"You would get a bitchin' fever as a Christmas present, bro." Dean says this as he sets the water glass on the table next to the damp rag.

Sam's too tired to flip him off. He lays back down with a groan. He wants to vomit, he swallows it, because he's also too tired to sit back up.

"You need anything?" Dean hovers, and pretends that it's not hovering. "More whiskey?" he shrugs a dry smile. "You want me to kiss your brow or anything?"

Sam looks at him incredulously, with a _"Dude" _His head throbs one good pounding rhythm behind his eyes that makes him want to vomit right there on Dean._"_Health," Sam returns, and breathes out like he's waiting for such a present to be flung down the chimney. "I want health." He'd even accept it from _Bad Santa_ if it came without all the maiming. His body screams with dull aches, he whimpers again, he can't help it. He feels like shit. Fever's sucked major ass.

"Shh," Dean soothes him again. His second Christmas present to his brother is to not be a complete sarcastic dick when Sam feels badly enough to whimper. He replaces the rag on Sam's forehead; he wipes the hair out of his eyes. "You need a haircut kid." Dean takes a drink from his whiskey.

"You need more expensive taste in whiskey, man." Sam says through a slur, but Dean still hears it. "Seriously, did you ferment that in a ringed bathtub?"

"You drink Parrot Bay Sam, " Dean says. "Don't talk to me about cheap tastes."

Sam's ravaged with fever, and his eyes are glassy and unfocused, but he still manages a bitchface. Drinking Parrot bay was just the _one time_, because that girl was _hot. _"Merry Christmas, asshole."

Dean shrugs another laugh, finding himself still playing with Sam's hair. "Ah Sammy, you're precious."

Sam scowls again, but still seems to fold himself into Dean's touch, and neither one of them will admit that it comforts them both, but it _does._

Sam finally settles into the pull of a fever induced sleep; and Dean watches it for a moment to make sure that it's deep enough to keep his brother under, before he removes the hand in Sam's hair.

He flips on the television to a Packers vs Steelers game, and settles back to watch it, propped up near his sleeping brother.

Sam's hand finds its way to Dean's clad leg. Dean raises his eyebrows in exasperation, and after removing said hand from being a '_might bit up to high'_ for his brother to be placing it _there_, he lets it rest on his knee.

Sam's fingers actually _curl_ on his knee, like it did when he was five and had some kind of ailment that Dean would only be able to take care of because Sam insisted on being difficult and not letting anyone else touch him. Dean doesn't remove it. He lets the exasperated smile dissolve, and just stares at the kid.

"Merry Christmas Sammy."

**xxxxXxxxx**

**End.**

A bit of holiday fluff, because it's Christmas, and brother bonding is better than cookies and a warm cup of cocoa, in my humble opinion.

Dean calling Sam "precious" is in dedication to Jensen saying that at a Breakfast Con to Jared when Jared described his "fan girl moment" when meeting the guitarist of Pearl Jam.

Merry Christmas guys.

Mystic.


End file.
